Break The Wheel
by InsomniousInk
Summary: A retelling of the final season through the eyes of Daenerys Targaryen and her closest confidants. What if she hadn't burnt Westeros? What if her reign on the iron throne was just beginning? The dragon has surely awaken, and with it, comes a reign of fire and blood.
1. Fire and Ice

**Hello, all! **

**As many of you are, I was a little burnt out by the finale of Game of Thrones. Regardless, I'd always support the show because it brought me some of the best characters I could hope for in writing and storytelling, though I had a feeling of emptiness when it ended. I needed more, and I thought it might be best to do a little short retelling here. Depending on the feedback, I might continue this as a story, as I have a lot of ideas as to what could happen after this specific scene, though we'll have to wait and see! Let me know if you enjoyed this. **

**InsomniousInk**

**Xo**

* * *

The bells sang in union, sending the message across Westeros (and Old Valeria) that the surrender had been formed.

Though hatred burned through Daenerys Targaryen, etching out only one possible path for her to take.

Vengeance.

Under the burning eye of the garnet sun, she stared into the endless sky and saw Jorah's eyes; kind in their creases and bright in their promise to deliver the seven kingdoms. He had done what was promised, though death had taken him before such a victory.

Missandei was another pawn in this game of thrones.

Daenerys's stomach turned with the thought of her- her confidant, companion and friend. Brown eyed and dark haired, light hearted and dead. Forever one with the earth.

There was no celebration in her death, especially knowing that Cersei Lannister had let her suffer in chains - the one tying piece of dread that Dany had tried to free her from.

There was a sick sense of poetic hatred in there somewhere.

Those sweet eyes of Missande's drifted through her memory - envisioning her sweet, shy cusp of laughter. The remembrance brought forward no tears of sadness, as it had moments she perished, but an anger of the sourest kind.

Drogon shifted beneath her, the scales of his sharded back heating with an outraged fire.

One word, she thought. One word and all innocence would be avenged.

Though she couldn't, she wouldn't… would she?

That anger within her now - for her family and children - was far from meaningless emotion. The anger was now apart of her - an organ that pumped and throbbed with life. Slice it out with revenge, and it would slop to the ground, hissing and screaming in unyielding protest. It was as real as her heart, if she bared such a thing anymore.

Daenerys tightened her hands around Drogon's neck and looked to the horizon for Cercei, finding not a shadow nor a person, but the tower in the western quarter; home to her greatest enemy.

One word, Dany thought, and Drogon would release his molton breath in a flurry of orange fire, ending her turmoil and pain.

The townspeople of old valyria scurried like swarming ants through the broken archway, rushing past Greyworm to freedom. She saw the torment in his gaze, feeling every whirl of his slashing sword.

_One word_, Dany thought again.

Her anguish would surely be seized.

The thrumming bells laughed at her with each chime, and suddenly, Tyrion's words of wisdom made no logical sense.

Dany leant against the rough spine of her most volatile weapon, and whispered into his ear:

"Dracarys."

The dragon thundered from the rocky edge in a whirl of rushing wings, launching into the belly of the sky. He tore through the clouds with Dany at his mercy, those long tresses of violent white flowing with the wind.

She felt his cockles warm with the impending breath, the temperature building in one, two, three surges of air. The children beneath her began to scream and scurry, and that knot of guilt tightened as Drogon unhinged his vicious jaws, roaring loud enough to numb the clocktower.

Daenerys shielded her gaze from expectant light, though nothing came. Drogon whirled and was heading for the red keep, making it hard for her to keep seated.

"Dracarys!" The silver mother screamed again, seeing those petrid soldiers flee without pain. Though Drogon ignored her. The height of independance startled her, clinging onto the varnished skin of her dragon's back as he arched and curled around buildings, swatting them away like a farm animal would twitch its ears from bothersome flies.

No, Drogon hadn't scorched the people of Westeros like she had asked. He was instead heading for Cercei's watchtower, the rumble in his gut deepening with every added second. It deemed as if he was intelligent enough to note that this woman, this thing of a human being, had killed his brother… had killed the kind-hearted Missandei, and had ripped away as much of his hurt as Daenerys had endured.

Though, surely, he couldn't understand such a thing… he was an animal, no intelligence stemmed past that.

Though he wasn't just an animal, Daenerys thought, Cersei's shadow coming into play.

He was a dragon. He seized every law, every article of life and nature. He was as old as the world itself, and she, was just a pawn in _his _game.

She realised then that this wasn't about her loss, but his also. She was only along for the ride.

"Do what you will, my child." Daenerys whispered into his air, spoken in raw Dothraki. Drogon responded with a shriek of understanding, sending chills down her spine. Her moment of anguish had vanished, and she saw the hurrying women and children, even men, that bared the same dark hair as her sun and stars, the moon of her life… Drogo. Tears threatened to overcome, though she was quick to swallow them. Now wasn't the time for redemption. She would find that after the bounty had been paid.

Drogon veered left and curled around the slanted building of an old church, each flap of his wings knocking the balance of the crowd.

Daenerys desperately held for guidance, her knees tightening against his rigid frame, her thighs burning from the friction.

As they approached the castle, Cercei was nowhere to be seen - though the news didn't halt the dragon. In one breath, he released a flurry of molton flames down onto the tower, breaking brick, stone and iron. Destruction rained down upon the city, rushing the people of Westeros for haven.

Daenerys couldn't bare to look as those beyond the gates were caught in the riptide of mass desolation, the penalty and judgement serving duefully. She buried her face deep into Drogon's scales, her skin melting by the fire that scorched throughout his entire body. She felt her flesh burn to red as flamed licked long lashes from his twisted tongue.

The world around them began to crumble.

Cercei's castle caved in on itself, and the poverty stricken crowd watched from afar, gambling for freedom when running through enemy quarters, straight past Greyworm and his fleet. The rich died along with the merchants, plummeted by the heavy foundation of Westeros's fine landmark of an empire. If her eyes weren't so hot from the heat, she would have gazed over the massacre with great satisfaction.

'You don't want to wake the dragon, do you?' Viserys had said.

The dragon was certainly awake now, and she felt the hot cobbles of its heritage seizing through her veins. The same feeling she had bared when corrupting the ice in the North against the battle of the dead.

No, she couldn't come back from this feeling, this immensity of power. And she had a feeling that neither could her beloved Drogon.

His inferno burned holes and stripes through the square, crumbling it to dust and the small group of people 'good enough' to be inside Cersei's gates (thus becoming protected by her seized army) charcoaling to black ash.

His large, skeletal wings curled and sprung, bringing them closer to the flames where they swam, diving through the yellow, amber and copper light, straight into the open sky. Daenerys silver hair clung to the flames though didn't burn, the ends only sparking like dancing fireflies., her fur coat from the north catching alight. It didn't burn nor bother her, feeling homely and hot against her skin. She rode through the great underbelly of the world like the dragon she had always aspired to be, and let her clothes singe to nothing, the screams of the wealthy like music to her ears.

The wheel was beginning to break.

She came to land not an hour later, wearing nothing but the silken slip she had beneath every gown. It was the lightest shade of blue, ruined from the bottom in tattered streaks of burnt lace. It dripped off her body in a twisted drizzle of sky fabric, exposing the entirety of one thigh whilst the other remained covered. Daenerys was careful to slide from Drogon as she approached the ground, finding no more than Tyrion and his accompanying friend, Sir Davos.

"M'lady," Sir Davos began, "was it entirely wise to pursue the castle even after the alarm had been sounded?"

Tyrion stared straight ahead, looking to the distance where the fire was dying, and the smoke was billowing in great chuffs of black smoke. She ignored the gentleman to his left, and looked straight at the imp- the hand, to her now seized throne.

When Daenerys didn't answer Sir Davos, Tyrion finally spoke.

"I thought we had an agreement."

"Then you thought wrong." She said, in that high voice that had come from years of ruling. It was accustomed to her, as fit as the twirling braids hanging down her back. "I listened to your plea for innocence, and I spared the lives of many in Westeros. I sought my enemy and took her beloved council of people with her."

Daenerys was smart to leave out her moment of weakness, for it was now just the smallest of secrets between her and the old gods… perhaps even the new.

Tyrion swallowed hard with the mention of his sister, still as weak as he had been when they were children. The scar aligning his face creased with his furrowed brows, making him look all the more older, and all the more troubled.

He knew, deep in the marrow of his bones, that this was bound to happen. Though it still didn't free the tug of pain around his heart. His last living family were gone, and it was only him left to serve the true name.

His father would be ashamed.

Jamie would be rejoiced.

Daenerys continued that impassive stare, the one an accomplished ruler had mastered, and waited with the patience of a saint. Though a saint she was not, in her own mind.

Tyrion after a moment of contemplation, and hidden mourning, nodded once, and turned from her observant eye. "Right, on we go. Let us find the queen something fitting to wear."

Daenerys waved her hand at Sir Davos, who was already shrugging his jacket off. "I'm fine." She said, and strode passed Drogon, toward the archway of broken rock. "I want to see my throne."

"Daenerys." Came a voice from behind, thick and memorable, stirring something even hotter than dragon-fire inside of her. Jon Snow stood before her, his hair white with ashes, his blade rusted with blood. Behind him were the fleet that survived, and toward him was the silver-haired wonder that had won the seven kingdoms.

Her tattered dress blew in the wind, bringing his ever-so gentlemanly gaze down her once, before sliding back up. They said nothing, and in the same sense, they said everything.

She extended her hand toward him, and without hesitation, he took it, walking with her toward the castle that burned bright against the lilac sky.


	2. Water and Earth

**Hi, everyone! **

**This piece is a lot shorter than the first. However, I wanted to upload something tonight. Expect more pieces throughout the week. Keep me posted with your thoughts on what else you'd like to see. I have a plan for where this is going, but I'd be interested in incorporating some ideas.**

**InsomniousInk**

**Xo**

* * *

The iron throne stood defiantly in the mass of chalky rubble.

As if the old gods of Valyria were listening, a portal of sky light beamed through the broken pillars of the roof, staring straight down onto the steel pedestal. It was magnificent in its size, and terrifying in the cool cut of blades that formed a worthy dominion.

Though beautiful as it was, Jon Snow gazed before its masterpiece and focused on the woman before it.

Effervescent was the silver light dancing off of Daenerys Targaryen's hair, her skin a liquid cream from the time spent in the north.

She stood before the swords with a look of raw wonder, the ashes of her defeat glimmering in her blue eyes.

Beautiful, he thought.

Beautiful, she mused, staring at the throne. Daenerys outstretched a hand and brushed the valyrian steel arm, its cold edge nipping at her fingertips.

Her true purpose in life had come as a signed letter upon her birth - the game of iron thrones and a mark as bright as blood over her head.

To see it now, to breathe upon it…

Emotion welled in her eyes, grasping the cold steel with a sense of belonging.

"All of my life I have known one goal." Daenerys began, the sky coloured silk morphing to her body as she took gentle steps. "I have endured more than the average woman, and taken beatings in every language. I have fallen, and I have conquered. I have been exercised as a liberator and tested as a human being, but everything… everything," faltering, her words breaking, "was worth it for this moment."

Turning as she finally met the chamber of swords, sitting for the first time on the iron throne. "With you."

Jon Snow's boyish features had hardened, passion igniting in those eyes of warm brown. The wolf within him awakened, stalking forward to the silver haired prowess in the distance.

Jon lowered himself to one knee, and bowed down his shaggy haired head, dregs of white chalk falling from the broken heavens.  
"I give myself to you, my queen." Jon snow gestured out his fine steel sword, and waited for his gift to be accepted.

Fire and ice danced in Daenerys eyes, lifting the hilt of the blade with delicate, ruling fingers. The metal glimmered under the sunlight, brightening the fine forked tip as it raised and lowered to Jon's shoulders.

Daenerys knighted him with the highest of voices:

"I, Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons, grant you, Aegon Targaryen,"

Jon inhaled a sharp breath of air.

"- the right to your true family house and name, the freedom of passage throughout the seven kingdoms, and a right to rule as ruler alongside your queen."

Jon peered from the ground, all pleasantries hardening in his throat, making it rather difficult to speak.

"Your grace-" He began to protest

"Now," interrupted Khaleesi, "rise and give yourself to your queen in a less formal manner."

Jon Snow stood and let the Valyrian steel sword clatter to the paved stone floor, emptying his hands to make room for her - his dragon of earth and fire, water and ice.

The wind picked up, whistling a gust through the castle and its dregs of an empire.

He kissed her, slow at first and then quick - all boyishness rinsing from him. Daenerys parted her rosy lips, welcoming him into her mouth with a submissive quality the she had only given to two men in her life.

Drogo, her sun and stars.

And the dragon before her, with all the grace of his great, white wolf.

Jon's calloused hands (from endless lifetimes served in the night's watch) tightened as handfuls in her silk dress. Their kiss deepened, the ash of the inferno falling around then.

"Your grace." Came all of a sudden, deterring them from their height of raw passion.

Daenerys' jewel gaze glanced passed her king to find Greyworm, standing with his hands clamped around a frightened woman.

Dust dirtied the stranger's hair and ruined her woven dress, making her appear all the more sad and despaired.

"She survived, your grace." Greyworm said.

That's when Daenerys realised.

It was Cercei.

Cercei was alive.

Outside, she heard Drogon roar.


	3. Thunder and Wind

Cersei stood in a circle of dim light, her blonde hair dirtied from the destruction of the building.

She looked far younger than Daenerys was expecting, an essence of foolish youth about the way she wrung her hands.

"You have murdered, pillaged, defiled and deceived in both cold and hot blood. Your crimes committed have been of the bitterest kind, and for that, I , queen of the iron throne, sentence you to die."

Tyrion steered uncomfortable in his chair, looking over the crowd of townspeople that both feared and envied the mother - her eyes now dancing with wildfire.

Cercei did not look at the dragon queen once, prefering to stare wordlessly at the stone walkway.

He mourned his family for a reason he did not understand, and hated them for a reason better left unspoken. The monster growing to love the pitchforks that longed to burn him.

Seeing his sister - his wickedly evil, deeply troubled sister - made him swallow the bile rising in his throat, looking away and instead, towards Khaleesi.

Alas, Daenerys looked to the horizon, seated on her rightful throne, the council of her advisors listening to the testimony of her truth.

Seven days had it been since they discovered the traitorous body of Cersei's unlawful escape - and seven days had it been since Daenerys overthrew the democracy of the Lannister reign.

Her first point of call was this trial, an event she invited all the lords and ladies of Westeros to attend - granting them safe passage beyond the dragon-scaled gates of gold and iron.

Sansa had made the trip especially, sitting beside Jon with an unwavering, cool gaze, her wild, crimson hair framing her face. She listened without revealing much of what she felt on the inside, though it was clear that hatred ached deep in the walls of her muscles, and the marrow of her bones.

In all, there was around fifty people in the grand room - all debating the verdict given by the next queen. A small group were attending just to see the most formidable of all Lannister's die.

"Your grace," said Edmund Tully then, standing from his chamber beside his younger nephew, "is endless imprisonment not a more suitable punishment? For death seems a little…"

His words died in his throat, the silver haired sphynx's impassive, dead stare falling upon the nothing man.

"May I remind you," she said, in a voice as soft as sugar, yet equally as strong as that of her great father - the mad king, "that this woman ordered for your family to be massacred during your marriage to the Frey girl. _And may I also remind you,_" her voice growing louder, "that this shrivel of a human being nearly destroyed half of the seven kingdoms in order to rule Westeros - which, I add, she did repugnantly and unjust!"

The audience hollered in agreement.

Daenerys went quiet, her chin raised proudly though the words eating at her on the inside. They were as thick as horse heat, causing her to swallow loud - a 'glug' hitting the air. Daenerys hadn't unfortunately forgotten her moment of weakness in the violent clouds, her reign of fire nearly having ended all she had worked for.

As if sensing her discomfort, Drogo once more released a howl of anger from the brisk heat of beyond the castle.

Cercei flinched, her cusp of blonde hair messing into her face.

"Death," Sansa spoke in this moment, "is what she deserves." Agreeing with the queen - strange, given their constant struggle of power-play.

Daenerys turned her head, nodding once in agreement to the brightest wolf of the pack - saving JOn.

"With fire? From the beast outside?" Asked a lady from the east, capturing another of Daenerys' pointed glares. This time, it was Jon who spoke, his body bare of that usual fur coat of midnight black. Sporting instead a leather vest and dark, cotton shirt. His beard had been groomed through his hair still shaggy.

"As your queen has already said, death by whatever means is already decided. And I thought a lady as such as yourself would remember your place in a world of dragons, Esmera."

Daenerys silently thanked him with a softer look, knowing his strengths when it came to a true ruller's path. Beyond the great and narrow sea, Daenerys had her own pledge of devotion. Yet here, Jon had his.

He knew the names of those in Westeros, given the friendship his father - Eddard Stark - had with the original Baratheon pig-king.

Alas, they made a great duo of fire and ice.

Both the girl from the east and Edmund from house Tully sat, looking rather sheepish.

Jon spoke out to the rest of Westeros now, his northern accent a stranger to these parts of the world.

"Does anyone else have objections as to why this woman shouldn't die? After all she has put us through."

The room as silent, full of wandering eyes and shrinking shoulders. After quiet deliberation, however, Sansa spoke, catching the eyes of Daenerys Targaryen.

"She shouldn't die from fire."

Cersei's slumped head rose, her eyes watering and hot with betrayal and hatred.

"She should be executed like my father was. By decapitation."

Jon's head lulled, and the room fell into a bottomless pit of silence… except for Cercei.

"Geoffrey was to blame for that."

"I beg your pardon." Snarled Sansa, all the colours of her dire-wolf coming through.

"I plead for your father's life." Cercei said tiresomely, as if she had recited the tale a thousand times. "I didn't want him to die."

Tyrion looked hopefully to Sansa now, as if this would make all the difference.

It did not. "Just because you didn't strike the match that started the fire, doesn't make you innocent. You watched without care, not once bothering to pick up a barrel of water. You created the monster that reigned destruction, and I will see to it that the mother is killed."

Cercei smiled, her lips pulling into a snakeish line. "Then let's make it quick, can we? I'm getting awfully tired."

Daenerys sat in her bubble of impassive, unwavering behaviour, not looking though still addressing Sansa. "Decapitation it is… in chains, just as Missandei was."

In the corner of the room, she saw Greyworm bow his head quickly, his jaw tensing with the muscles of clenched, irritated teeth.

With a nod of appreciation from Sansa, she lifted her hand and bid Brienne of Tarth closer. As discussed from prior conviction, Brienne now served the seven kingdoms as lord commander, and her first port of call was to right the wrongs of Westeros by the hand of the Targaryen fleet.

The brute woman held Jamie's sword, and lifted it high above the ground, it's blade reaching the roof.

"Here?!" Cercei exclaimed. "There are no executions in the throne room! It's a dishonour to Westeros."

"The wheel has been broken." Daenerys said softly, all the explanation needed.

Cercei panicked and began weeping as a soldier from the guard forced her low and to her knees.

"You never deserved Jamie." Brienne said, her lips jutting out in a quiver to withhold the emotion that threatened to spill. Cersei's gaze enraged with fear, though not before the blade came down and sawed her head clean off.

The sound was loud enough to satisfy the seven kingdoms.


End file.
